The Cosmology of Bing
A Novel
New York
for Peter Chang,
and for Robert Drake
FALL
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BING
1.
Damn notes, Bing thought. Should’ve kept them in a pocket.
And where had they left off? What was said? He couldn’t recall having even lectured. The syllabuses were passed out, surely. Introductions were made, of course. But today—where to begin? He had no idea.
“Well, let me see. Perhaps I should ask you. I suspect some fledgling astronomers in the room have a few thoughts on how to proceed.”
This was the Thursday class, supposedly the same students as from the Tuesday class, yet Bing found himself standing in front of quiet strangers—sixty-eight blank faces staring at him, slouched bodies occupying seats in the Thompson Planetarium, not a single person worth remembering. But the first weeks always seemed awkward, a required adjustment period while minds were being made up (some students would drop the course, latecomers would appear). And sometimes a month passed before a class formed its own distinct personality—morose, cheerful, maybe chatty—and from that collective one or two promising individuals usually emerged.
“Professor Owen, can I ask a question?”
A young woman’s voice, very deep and loud. But she hadn’t raised her hand. So Bing peered forward, looking for her, and said, “You just did. Ask another if you wish.”
No one smiled or laughed. A tough crowd.
“Stand up please. I don’t know where you are.”
She cleared her throat and then stood, a solitary soul in the back row.
“There you are,” he said.
Yes, there she was. Bleached hair as white as milk, cropped close to her scalp. Black tank top. Fingers fidgeting with the loops of her blue jeans.
“This might be off the subject, but I was wondering if you believed in alien life, as in extraterrestrial beings visiting us. Because I do. I mean, if you consider that we all come from the same source then it doesn’t seem so impossible that equally intelligent beings or even smarter-than-us beings might actually be here from another galaxy. Because when I was fourteen my brother and me actually saw what was obviously an alien craft one night at my grandparents’ house in Virginia. There’s no other explanation, really. So I’m not surprised at all.”
Sit down, he thought. Go away. Die.
Blank faces turned to see her. Then, as if on cue, the very same faces returned to Bing, who was rubbing his chin. Chewing absently on the cap of his pen, a boy sitting in the front row smirked and shook his head. Bing liked that kid.
“There was a question somewhere in there, I think.”
“Yes.”
“Seems you want to know if I believe extraterrestrials visit the earth?”
She nodded.
“Something like that, yeah.”
“But you already know they do. I’ll just take your word for it.”
He glanced at the boy in the front row, giving him a wink.
“Well, I guess I was wondering if you feel our government has been lying to us about—”
He knew her. He had known her for years and years. Sometimes she was male, sometimes black, sometimes Latino or Asian, more often than not she was female and white and young. And she had to be heard. He had never taught a class in which she didn’t exist. And when her peers grew tired of her rambling—her inane questions and comments—she would still fail to sense the complete meaninglessness of her own words and thoughts. White-girl disease, he called it. How she talked talked talked, blathering with authority. He hated her with every inch of his flesh.
“Hitler’s mother,” Bing said, interrupting her.
That got their attention.
One hundred and thirty-six eyes gazed at him beneath the starless planetarium sky, indifference now tinged with curiosity. This was Origins of the Universe? No Big Bang. No expansion of space. Wasn’t Professor Owen supposed to inflate a balloon—a balloon that represents galaxy clusters—explaining that the space between the clusters increases, but the size of the clusters doesn’t?
“Hitler’s mother had a saying. She’d go, ‘If you believe it, it is so.’ Unfortunately, her son took that to heart. Anyway—and what I suppose I’m trying to say is—if you believe it, dear, it is so. Frankly, this whole extraterrestrial thing leaves me limp.”
And that was that.
“Okay.”
She shrugged, sinking into her seat.
But what he wanted to tell her was that the universe was rich with tangible mysteries. Honestly, no aliens need apply. And in our galaxy—where vast storms rotated counter-clockwise on Neptune, and ice volcanoes shot frigid geysers on Triton, and the sun’s magnetic activity inexplicably waned and intensified again every eleven years—there was profound violence and beauty. That’s what I should tell you, he thought, but I won’t. I’m bored and restless and I don’t want to be here any more than the rest of you do. So I’m sorry. My notes are in my office; that’s where I’ll be going. I thought we could manage without them. I guess not. Some days are better than others, I suppose.
What now?
He consulted his watch.
Over ten minutes late in arriving. Then about ten minutes of engaging zombie children, a brief discussion concerning aliens in Virginia and government cover-ups. Approximately fifty minutes remaining.
Class dismissed.
“Do your reading or readings. Do whatever the syllabus says to do. Be ready on Tuesday, all right? Have a great weekend. Do yourself a favor—have a super weekend!”
And Bing watched them all rise from their seats en masse, gathering books and backpacks. The pen-chewing boy shuffled by without as much as a nod. No one said a word, at least not to him; they filed out through the side doors, making a hasty escape—quiet as church mice, just the sounds of big jeans swooshing, sneakers clomping, the doors opening and shutting.
Then he was alone.
How long had it taken? Thirty seconds? Maybe fifteen? He hadn’t noticed White Girl Disease leaving, but, thank God, she was nowhere to be seen.
You keep haunting me, he thought. You’re a ghost. Good riddance.
And just then, how peaceful the planetarium felt; this was the only decent place in Houston for watching the stars. At night the city glowed, eclipsing the heavens. But in here—with the flip of a switch, the twisting of a few knobs—the city disappeared, the Milky Way shone clear and perfect; one could almost imagine sitting in the countryside after nightfall, an unclouded sky above, the constellations revealing themselves.
As a college student, Bing worked at a similar place, though it was smaller and in disrepair. He ran the Star Show for high school field trips, putting on elaborate displays while selections from Holst’s The Planets played through a single loudspeaker. The ceiling leaked, the dome interior was streaked with water damage. But when the lights dimmed and the stars faded in, the ruin became invisible.
“This is where you find your spot in the galaxy,” he would explain to his audience. “My role is to guide you along.”
At eighteen, he wasn’t much older than most of the field trippers. Still, he sensed that he was further along, that he’d digested vast amounts of knowledge in a short period of time. He ate textbooks.
“I’m probably a genius,” he told his mother.
“You’re a genius of something,” she’d reply, “except I don’t know what.”
It was 1958, and he studied under Professor Graham Wilmot, a teacher whose lectures made Bing fall in love with the universe.
“That’s why you’re here,” Wilmot told his students, “to find your place in the universe. My function is to help you.”
And he did; it was Wilmot who offered Bing the job of running the Star Show, and it was Wilmot who wrote him a flattering recommendation when it came time to apply for graduate school. But the Star Show—listening to Holst, running the projector, speaking to a group of high schoolers as if he were a professor—that was the best. He couldn’t thank Wilmot enough.
And some evenings, after swimming practice, he unlocked the planetarium, snuck inside, and performed a Star Show for his own enjoyment. And more than once, when the occasion presented itself, he brought someone along with him in the middle of the night, a man he’d met at a bar near campus. A stranger. Romantic, not sleazy, he reasoned. A discreet encounter, a mutual exchange. The chance of discovery was slim. Forget that he never knew the man’s name, or that he felt miserable for days afterwards. How many ended up going with him? As a freshman, six. As a sophomore, nine. None as a junior—that’s when he began dating his future wife. Never again, he promised himself. I’m a new man, I’m changed.
That was forty years ago.
2.
The course notes—or, in the very least, the syllabus. One or the other would be helpful.
“Dammit, where are you?”
Bing leaned forward in his seat and began rummaging through the papers on his desk, exploring a mess of unread memos, forgotten letters, a year’s worth of university bulletins that he was supposed to give students.
Not there.
He lifted books. He checked inside his briefcase, twice.
Nothing.
Think.
He propped his elbows among the papers, cupping his face in his hands.
Let’s see, let’s see. That’s right, yes. Must be at home. Somewhere on his desk at home. Of course.
“Hey, did you get Tong’s e-mail?”
Who’s that?
His hands parted as if fastened to hinges. Peekaboo.
There was Casey, filling the office doorway with his girth, his Metallica concert shirt, his bushy topknot of hair (an obscene tuft that sprouted from his crown like a pom-pom); he grinned within his woolly beard. “Dr. Spacey Casey,” Bing sometimes called him, but only after several rounds at their favorite pub, The Stag’s Horn.
“Haven’t checked my e-mail today,” Bing said. “I’ll do it later.”
“Well, I suggest you do it sooner rather than later. He’s got big news.”
“I know that. He woke me with the news, so I know. I knew before the rest of you bastards did. Tong and me are like this—”
Bing crossed his fingers—left hand, right hand—holding them up for Casey to see.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever—pretty interesting, no?”
“Yes,” Bing said, “it’s amazing.”
It was worth envy; on an extended sabbatical in southwestern Texas, atop a mountain peak, Professor Tong had left his night watch at the McDonald Observatory and walked outside. He was hoping to confirm with his eyes what had already been revealed by a freshly developed photograph—a photograph taken through the telescope two hours previously. And while searching the sky, he spotted the luminous object, an anomaly which hadn’t existed earlier that evening, glowing amid a satellite galaxy of the Milky Way. Making sure astronomers worldwide would know, Tong reported the sighting to the International Astronomical Union. Then he called Bing the following morning, waking him with the words, “A supernova. Ostensibly it is, but I’m positive. Without a doubt in my mind, a fifth-magnitude object. I saw it. Didn’t even need the telescope. It was there, plain as day.”
Plain as night, Bing thought. Lucky sonofabitch.
“The little guy sounded loopy,” he told Casey. “Thought he was drunk at first.”
“Hell, I’d be drunk,” said Casey. “I’d start drinking at dawn and keep going. I mean, Jesus, you remember the last time a supernova got seen with the naked eye?”
“Not in my lifetime.”
“For certain. And you know it ain’t happening again while either of us is still breathing. Tong just made the books.”
The books, history, being in the right place at the right time—what did it matter?
“I’m happy for him,” Bing said.
Casey flexed his shoulders.
“I’d love to say the same.”
Bing thought: I’m sure you would, Casey. But all’s fair, and you’re a part-time lecturer. Men like you don’t make the books. Men like Tong and me do.
That was why they were professors, that’s why they got sabbaticals and research grants—so they could make the books. So they could write them too. And why exactly wasn’t Casey at the faculty luncheon anyway? Bing could’ve used his company. No one had talked to him. Well, almost no one. The Holy Trinity sure didn’t. Not for a second. But if Casey and Tong had been there with him, they could’ve had their own trinity—then they could’ve walked out together into the fine afternoon, laughing and talking like great friends. There are some things more important than supernovae, Bing thought, and friendship is one of them. And love. And a good joke. Which reminds me. Did you hear McDouglas is getting liposuction? The operation takes place May, June, July, August, September, October, November and December. That’s a good one. I need to tell you that sometime. I think you’d like it. Tong would.
He motioned for Casey to enter. Then he pointed at the chair in front of his desk.
“Come and sit a spell. I’ve got office hours soon, don’t think anyone will show up though.”
“Would like to,” said Casey, scratching the tip of his nose with a finger, “except my three o’clock class would probably miss me. How about drinks later? The Stag’s Horn and happy hour?”
“Can’t tonight. Tomorrow’s better. Is that good for you?”
“Sure. I’ll call you at home.”
“Sounds good.”
Bing nodded. A resolute nod, like a firm handshake. And after Casey wandered away into the corridor, he went to the door and closed it, locked it, tested the handle making certain.
Just for a moment, he thought. Just while I get a nip.
The nip. Ten High bourbon. A half-pint bottle, half full, in the bottom drawer of his file cabinet. Then a quick swig. One more. Go easy. That’s enough, that’s good. He returned the bottle, hiding it between manila folders, filing it under the letter T.
The drawer slid shut.
Bing sighed as he stood. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Then he straightened his bow tie, smoothed his hair, checked his zipper.
Ready.
He unlocked the door and pulled it open.
And waiting in the corridor, standing before the doorway, a green backpack hanging from a shoulder, was the pen-chewing boy; with a fist raised, poised for knocking, his presence startled Bing.
“What’re you doing?”
“Sorry,” the boy said, lowering his fist. “I was about to knock. You’re having office hours, right?”
Bing’s face revealed nothing.
“These are my office hours, yes.”
The boy let the backpack slip; in one deft move the strap went from his shoulder to his hand, where the backpack then dangled at his side.
“There’s this article you wrote. It interested me a lot.”
Article? What article?
Bing glanced at the boy’s slim, tanned neck. Then he glanced at his shoes, then at his blue eyes.
“You’re in my class, correct?”
“Yes. I read an article you published in Scientific Foundations.”
“Which one?”
“‘Vacuum Decay and Cosmic Locality.’”
“You read that? Really?”
Bing couldn’t believe it—this child reading and understanding that article.
“Yes.”
“You’re an undergraduate?”
“Yes.”
What an attractive boy he was too: tall and lanky, a born basketball player, with sandy hair parted in the middle, hair that fell into place after a hand ran through it. And how clean he seemed; his skin looked scrubbed and ruddy, his big swooshy jeans were pressed, his black tennis shoes unblemished. Yes, the hoop earring in his left nostril was silly, but, Bing reasoned, he’s young. And smart. And handsome—the kind of boy who must be beautiful and toned and smooth without his clothing on. Perhaps a swimmer.
“Come in, please.”
Then the door shut behind them, and Bing found himself seated at his desk, the boy sitting across from him. Between them the disarray of papers. And Bing wondered if the boy would like a pen to chew, but decided it might be an inappropriate suggestion, even if mentioned in jest. Anyway, this was business.
Name?
Nick. Nick Sulpy. A sophomore.
Major?
Undecided.
Except he loved reading, especially Whitman and Salinger. So maybe an English degree.
Bing wanted to know more about him. But not yet. Not today.
“And what exactly did you think of my article?”
Bing felt the Ten High in his throat, a residual sensation, warming.
Nick’s face brightened. How thin his lips were, how red.
There are some things more important than supernovae, Tong. There are other worlds to explore with the naked eye, you know.
3.
Ms. Bunny was late. And Bing was worried.
“She’s dead.”
He’d braved a rainy evening and slick streets, had arrived early so he could get a stool beside the baby grand. Now he waited, sipping his second pink lady, wondering if Ms. Bunny met with tragedy en route to the piano bar. Maybe her car skidded from the wet road, crashing into a tree, the impact killing her. He imagined her fake eyelashes knocked askew, her bones cracking, her powder-blue wig flying through the windshield amid shattering glass, and then the confused expressions of the paramedics as they discovered that the enchanting Ms. Bunny was, in reality, a man.
No more tacky jokes and sad songs, Bing thought. No more “Stormy Weather.” No more “That Old Black Magic.” Ms. Bunny is no more.
The announcement of her death would create an astonished silence, shocking all the other men seated around the piano, the regulars for Torch Song Thursday at The Naked Brunch, those chatty old queens with their dyed hair and silk shirts and cocktails; there wasn’t a jowly face among them worthy of consoling Bing. Only Damien. But Damien was different. He was younger than the rest—thirty-three, a psychology graduate student, favored as a research assistant—and cute in a compact elfish way: He’d made a living as a jockey before pursuing a doctorate.
And it pleased Bing to be seen in Damien’s company. The pair turned heads when arriving together, aroused whispers when settling next to one another near the piano. They traded rounds like close friends, talked intimately like lovers, aware the whole time that they were being watched with a mixture of disgust and regard—good God, it’s them again, sugar daddy and his pretty boyfriend.
“That’s a horrendous notion,” Damien said, patting Bing’s hand. “Ms. Bunny isn’t dead. She’s getting ready.”
“Suppose so.”
Bing appreciated the pat, the open display of affection, and hoped the others had spotted it.
I won’t be alone, he thought. If it’s tragedy, then I’ll have someone to support me as I leave. Someone to drive me home, to help me inside. I’m not like you sad sacks, not even close.
And perhaps Damien would hold him in the car. Would that be asking too much? Maybe a hug, or a kiss, or even—
Bing knew it was pointless. Once, while parked in front of The Naked Brunch, he’d leaned forward and kissed Damien on the cheek. Then he kissed his neck. And Damien didn’t protest, gave no sign that he was bothered by this older man reaching under his shirt. But then he told Bing to stop; he said it was wrong, said that they were friends, just friends. And there was Bing’s wife to think about.
“She won’t know. No one will. Me and you only. Our secret. No one gets hurt.”
“Someone always gets hurt.”
“But if we’re discreet, if we keep it to ourselves—”
“I’m sorry, Bing, but no. I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” Bing said. “I understand.”
So they’d be friends. Bing didn’t care, as long as he could be associated with Damien. As long as those other queens thought otherwise. Every Thursday they’d go to The Naked Brunch, and, at the end of the evening, they’d shake hands. It didn’t matter that they both shared and hid the same desires, or that they both loved show tunes and exotic drinks. Or that they had met by chance, not at school, not in the basement men’s restroom at the library (a rumored hotbed of sexual activity), but at this piano bar. It just didn’t matter.
Anyway, Damien lived with his mother. Bing had a wife. There was a quarter century age difference. Bing could be his father; he hated that idea. And there was another difference—Damien was obvious, effeminate, a bit prissy; Bing, as he imagined himself, was masculine, a real man, inclined only toward a slight weakness for other men. He wasn’t a faggot like Dr. Turman (Turman who lisped when he lectured, who had a boyfriend named Jeffrey). He had always loved his wife, always—and sometimes he strayed. Sometimes he wanted to be held. That’s all.
How long had it been?
He didn’t want to think about it, though he couldn’t stop himself: There was his wife, and then there was Marc. But that was long ago, and it was painful remembering. How the world was different once—there weren’t dance clubs like now, those places where boys went and danced and sweated to techno music. There were discos, of course, but he’d been too old for even them. Still, he never felt sorry for himself because his youth was squandered on the heavens. No regrets. Well, at least not many. Damien, he thought, I wish I could tell you something about myself, because I did love someone like you. And I lost him too. But that’s no one’s business except my own.
Yet he was young with Marc, or younger. He felt younger. The boy had been twenty-four. Bing had been thirty-six (three years older than Damien was now). And Marc—he was a student, an afternoon distraction from work. Bing loved him for three months and then he was gone. But they drank pink ladies together. Except it wasn’t Ms. Bunny—it was Sister Judy. And it wasn’t Texas, it was New York. But, Bing thought, there are some things that should be kept with one’s self. So he wouldn’t tell Damien how long it’d been since he slept with another man. Or how badly he sometimes missed Marc. Or that sometimes he dreamed about the boy and couldn’t quite recall exactly what he had looked like. So it was better not dwelling too much on the past. It was better to talk about the weather instead.
“My God, it’s raining men! Hail Mary, hallelujah!”
Ms. Bunny appeared, working the bar as she always did, wandering from man to man, touching chins, brushing cheeks. Soon she’d be at the piano, singing in that throaty voice of hers. But jokes came first, then sad songs.
“It’s a Viagra convention in here, seriously. Just kidding, darlings. I’m bad, I know. God bless Viagra, that’s all I got to say. Really, that drug is like Disneyland, honestly. You wait two hours for a three minute ride.”
Laughter.
“That’s funny,” Bing said as he lifted his drink.
Ms. Bunny sauntered between tables, blowing kisses and rolling her eyes.
“She’s alive,” Damien said.
“What?”
Bing leaned in, putting his shoulder against Damien’s shoulder.
“I didn’t catch what you said.”
But Damien looked away, smiling at Ms. Bunny as she moved toward them.
“Nothing,” Damien said. “It’s nothing.”
Nothing, Bing thought. Of course, nothing at all.
4.
The air smelled of sewage, of waste stirred by the rain. Bing sloshed across the damp lawn, heading for the porch, staggering in the light drizzle. And this was how he brought himself inside—waving to Damien when his VW pulled away from the curb. Then wiping his shoes on the doormat (mustn’t make a mess). Then fumbling with the keys (don’t forget them in the lock). Then through the front door (don’t slam it shut). Then up the stairs—go slow, don’t trip, be careful, easy on that squeaky top step—and then, there he was, short of breath, tipsy, relieved to be standing in his world.
Home. Why did he hate leaving it? Dread returning to it? He didn’t know. And when did one of the upstairs guest rooms become his bedroom? When was it agreed that the upstairs—with its own bathroom, its wet bar—would be his? The downstairs hers? She got the backyard, the garden. He got the French windows that opened to the balcony. At what point were these decisions made?
A flick of a switch illuminated the study. His bookcases. His couch. The coffee table. Beyond, in an alcove, was his office, his desk, his Frank Lloyd Wright table lamp, more bookcases, the stereo.
“Yes, home is where you hang yourself,” he told Pussy, his gray tabby who was curled on the couch. He went to her and stroked her coat. “Isn’t that right?” he said, cooing like she was a baby. “Pussy is a pretty girl.”
She raised her head just a bit, one eye closed, letting him scratch her chin.
“Pussy loves daddy.”
And below his shoes, beneath the rug and floor, down there in his wife Susan’s world, the house was dark but not quiet. She was asleep with the TV on—he could hear it droning in her bedroom, a late night religious program filtering into her brain, protecting her from those nightmares where she was drowning under a frozen lake. In the morning they’d talk. She’d make breakfast, serving him toast and orange juice and scrambled eggs with green chili. Then she’d ask for money (a check if he had less than ten dollars on him), something for Brother Van Horn in Atlanta, or The Faith Ministries in Baton Rouge, or Helpful Blessings in Orlando. He’d give her whatever was in his wallet. She’d accept his offering without a thank you; her black eyes revealing naught—no promise of salvation, no hope for prayers to be answered—even as her fingers closed around the bills.
But now she slept. And her book was on his coffee table, that slim volume of poetry, published the same year they both started teaching (Astrophysics for him, English Literature for her), before her brain played its trick and ended her career. Even then there were little clues, foretelling stanzas, lost on him until later.
To be only what I am, floating,
Carried somewhere else, transported
From one end to the other;
All my days are really the same
With varying degrees of cold and cold.
How could he have known?
And how strange it was when Marc (that afternoon distraction of so many years ago—that lover of poets, of Bing) once quoted her as they lay together after sex. She had already changed, had stopped writing and teaching, but the distraction spoke her words, making them sound somehow new and significant: “Our needful embrace, a reminder that we are alone within ourselves.”
“That’s Susan,” Bing said, matter-of-factly. “That’s my wife. You know that, right?”
Marc began speaking the words again, slyly, whispering them.
But Bing cut him off.
“Please don’t. She’s ill and it seems cruel.”
Marc turned on his back, breathing heavyily through his nose for effect.
“You love her more than me?”
“I can’t say. It’s different. It’s not the same thing.”
“Isn’t it?”
Marc folded his arms over his chest; his right leg scooted off the edge of the bed, his foot dropped to the floor. Then how uncomfortable that bed was, how suddenly useless. Yet, the following afternoon, it would become wanted—the single mattress with baby-blue sheets, existing in a low-rent apartment (Marc had given Bing a key, a coffee cup, a hanger for his jacket and slacks).
He touched Marc’s neck with his fingertips.
“You don’t understand what it’s like. It’s rather complicated. She’s my wife.”
Marc looked at Bing as if some terrible lie had been uttered.
“You love her. That’s why you’re here with me.”
“Daddy is parched.”
Bing wandered to the wet bar, and Pussy followed, rubbing and weaving between his ankles. He fixed a gin and Sprite, pouring the drink into a dirty glass that was stained with bourbon. Then he crossed to his office, clicked the stereo on, listening as static crackled from the speakers. His favorite classical station had signed off for the night. Still, he let the racket continue, preferring the bothersome hiss over the muffled rumble of his wife’s TV. “It’s the universe’s song,” he often told his students, when explaining electrostatic disturbances. And, while unlatching the French windows, that’s what he told himself.
“Cosmic radiation in E,” he said, enjoying the sound of his own voice.
Pussy meowed at his feet. She joined him on the balcony, where they both sniffed the foul air. At last the rain had quit. Glancing skyward, Bing saw the reflection of the city lights, the clouds above glowing with a pinkish hue. The constellations were up there somewhere, he knew, but even on clear nights it was impossible to stargaze in Houston; the city ate darkness within a thirty-mile radius—and Bing longed for the country, a farmhouse atop a hill, a year’s supply of gin, a telescope, a landmark discovery bearing his name.
“Daddy hates Tong.”
He nudged Pussy with his shoe. Then, shaking his head, sipping his drink, he imagined what moved beyond those clouds—Cassiopeia, the Winter Triangle, Tong’s dying star.
“No, no, I don’t. I don’t hate him. I love Tong, Pussy. He’s my friend.”
I’m plastered, Bing thought. I’m wrecked.